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A short dash caught a large mastiff, a little slow because of his size. The big dog was tossed right over the boar's back, belly ripped open, to hang twitching, caught on an upended root. Blood streamed from the dying animal, staining the boar's black hide red and driving the other hounds into a frenzy. One leapt to the trunk of the fallen tree and down onto the boar's back, tore at it, leapt away. The boar shrieked with rage and charged, slashing right and left so that yelping, bleeding hounds flew in all directions.
There was not much space to charge, so that the boar could not work up any real speed. As it was, Alinor gasped between fear and exultation. Red eyes, red mouth wide, ivory tusks bared, the beast seemed to be rushing straight at her. She knew she should turn her horse and fly, but she could not. All she could do was curse herself for her empty hands.
"A spear," she cried, "give me a spear!"
One was thrust into her hands, but even as her fingers closed on the shaft, the final scene of the drama was playing out at a quite safe distance. To the boar, the kneeling men in their bright robes were a far more attractive target than the thin black legs of the mare. Nor did Alinor's voice draw the animal. All the men were shouting, some calling insults, some endearments, as their natures directed.
"Come, love, come!" Leicester bellowed, waving his right arm wildly.
"Son of a sow, here!" Pembroke shouted.
Lord Llewelyn, to Leicester's left, used no words. He uttered a sound almost identical to the boar's own shrieks and it was at him, head down, tail up, that the furious animal charged. It swerved out of the direct line so that it was headed just too far left of Leicester's spear to be caught and too far right for Llewelyn's to reach. A woman's terrified scream rang across the clearing. Joan, Alinor thought, as she herself uttered a gasp of horror and kicked her mare forward; the huntsmen

 
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